


Convenient

by geekmama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7259881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She was embarking on a new adventure, and one that might very well completely turn her life around. Professional advancement. The possibility of a stable relationship. And children. She was thirty-four years old. It was time to make some serious choices.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>And five years was bloody long enough to devote to unrequited love.</i></p><p> </p><p>******************<br/>A different post-Season 3/TAB A/U incorporating the well-used but always interesting “Molly wants to move away/take a new position/get on with her life and Sherlock isn’t having it” trope. Goes with the ‘Strangers’ prompt, if you squint.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gino's

**Author's Note:**

> Posted in four chapters, with the majority of the smut in the third -- you could probably skip over that one, if you prefer, and still understand what's going on. Beta: er... hoping everything's OK. Also Brit-picking. I do my best, though my impatience to post is often a liability. And if I seem to have lifted an idea or ideas from any of you wonderful writers, I hope you will take it as a compliment.
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_Meet me for coffee? - SH_

 

Molly Hooper stared at the text, her mouth suddenly dry, that odd feeling back in the pit of her stomach.

She hadn’t seen him in over two months, but It took only four words from Sherlock Holmes to make her react in that way.

She took a deep breath, calming herself, closing her eyes to the chaos surrounding her.

No matter how organized one planned to be, packing up and moving was a wrenching process. There always came a point where home became just another flat, the walls bare, securely taped boxes piling up in corners, pockets of disorganization evident here and there. She had already sold some of her furniture, and the rest was to be given away, scheduled for pick up on Monday. Not her beloved rocking chair, of course, nor the antique storage chest her grandmother had passed down to her -- her “glory box” as Mum called it. Her sister would store those for her until she returned to England.

_If_ she returned.

A wave of anger surged through her. She should not be feeling like this. She was embarking on a new adventure, and one that might very well completely turn her life around. Professional advancement. The possibility of a stable relationship. And _children_. She was thirty-four years old. It was time to make some serious choices.

And five years was bloody long enough to devote to unrequited love.

A heavy, furry object insinuated himself into the nest of her lap with a plaintive “ _Meow!”_ and she chuckled ruefully and opened her eyes, gathering Toby up and holding his yielding, lusciously soft body to her cheek.

“I’ll miss you more than _anyone_ ,” she told him vehemently, her voice cracking.

_More_ tears.

And her text alert sounded again.

She groaned. Set Toby down and picked up her cellphone, gingerly, as though it might bite her.

 

_2PM at Gino’s - SH_

 

She jumped as it sounded once more, buzzing in her hand.

 

_Please? - SH_

 

Molly sighed. And texted back.

 

_See you at 2 - MH_

 

She should at least say goodbye to him, after all.

*****

Gino’s was surprisingly quiet, and Sherlock had found a table near the back, where they could converse in relative privacy. Molly wasn’t certain if she was glad or sorry about this circumstance, but there was nothing for it now, Sherlock had seen her come in and was now standing there, waiting for her.

As she approached, she felt more and more that this had been a mistake, that she should never have come. He looked gorgeous. Rather like her idealized memories of him, the Sherlock of her not infrequent dreams. She’d ruthlessly curtailed the daydreams in the last two years, but the Sherlock that came to her in the depths of sleep was more vivid and far less governable. Why, only the other night…

She felt herself suddenly blushing and set her teeth angrily. _Stupid!!_

Sherlock was giving her a quizzical look, and she could only pray he had not deduced the exact reason for her discomfiture. She lifted her chin, and tried to paste a pleasant smile on her face.

“Sherlock,” she said, firmly.

“Molly,” he replied.

That voice! So deep and amused and… _Molly get a grip!_

“You look well,” she said, and was pleased that she didn’t stammer.   

“Pretty fit,” he agreed. “Got out of rehab a couple of weeks ago. Hopefully for the last time.”

She nodded. She had certainly understood his reluctance to be exiled, to carry out some tortuous mission of Mycroft’s with only the probability of death at the end. But giving up? Opting for death by overdose before he’d even left English airspace? If anyone could beat the odds it was Sherlock Holmes, and Mycroft was _not_ infallible, no matter what his little brother believed. Molly’s cooperation had been secured only when he’d finally promised to go into rehab as soon as the “Faux-riarty” case was solved, provided that Mycroft was able to obtain a pardon for him. Fortunately, only a small number of people knew the real story of Magnussen’s death, and the number of notables that had been burned by the man at one time or another was legion. The pardon hadn’t ended up being a problem after all.

“But sit down!” he said, coming around the table to pull out her chair. “What would you like? Coffee?”

Molly wondered at his strangely affable manner, and she was a little slow in replying, “Yes, please.”

His mouth twitched. “I’ll get it. Don’t run off, now.”

He strode away to the counter and she was left wondering at that last remark. Or not wondering. Obviously he knew she was uncomfortable. That she would rather be almost anywhere else.

Wouldn’t she?

In the couple of minutes he was away from the table, Molly tried to pull herself together. They were friends. She was here to say goodbye, perhaps after telling him of her plans. If he was interested.

He returned all too soon, carrying a small tray with his coffee (black, two sugars), a mocha with a veritable mountain of whipped cream for her, and a plate of small pastries, both savory and sweet. “You look like you could use some extra calories,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve lost weight since I saw you last. Four pounds?”

“Three.” She smiled slightly. “Thank you for this. It… it’s a nice break.”

“You’ve been busy packing.”

His smile had faded a bit. She swallowed rather convulsively, but said, lightly enough, “You’ve heard, then?”

“Yes.”

He took a sip of his coffee, and she did the same, and then gave a nervous chuff of laughter as she was forced to lick whipped cream from her lip.

There was his smile again, as he picked up one of the paper napkins they’d been given and offered it to her. She accepted it and wiped away the last of the cream, but then froze when he took it from her hand and gently cleaned the tip of her nose. Then he set it down and sat back, looking at her, still with that odd smile.

“Th-thank you,” she said.

“Shall we… _er_ … cut to the chase?” he asked.

Her brows twitched together. “Yes. Let’s.”

He hesitated a moment, lowering his gaze to his coffee, then raised his eyes -- _those_ eyes -- to pin her there. “You’ve had an offer from the University of San Francisco. Two years in a well-funded research program. Coincidentally, the building your flat’s in has been sold, you’ve been given notice to vacate, and you won’t easily find another flat in your particular price range, not without moving well out of central London. And your mother has met someone, an Australian over here on business. A month ago she announced to you and your sister that she’s emigrating at the end of this year. Do I have it, so far?”

“Yes!” she managed. So stupid to be surprised.

He went on. “You are anxious to both further your career and find someone with whom to start a family, something, permanent, something stable. Someone who will support you in your goals to the utmost of his ability. And you believe that this will be far easier if you leave London. Am I correct?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Leave London,” he repeated. “And not because you’ve grown tired of it, or of your job -- which still has the possibility of advancement attached to it. And not because you won’t miss your family and friends to an almost intolerable degree.”

She put up her hand. She must stop him, much more and she’d be dissolving in tears.

But he said one more thing. “You’re leaving London because of me.”

She swallowed hard, and neither confirmed nor denied the statement.

But of course she didn’t have to.

Finally, she gave a singularly mirthless laugh and said, “Why are you doing this, Sherlock?”

“Because, Molly Hooper, I don’t want you to go.”

She shook her head, almost able to smile. “Mike Stamford’s still at Bart’s, and I’m sure you can charm whoever replaces me, for the lab or the occasional body part.”

“Is that what I did? Charm you?”

She thought of his peremptory ways, his insults, deliberate and not. But… “Yes, you did,” she said, defensively. “Not that you weren’t awful, inappropriate and entitled and stroppy as a spoiled teen. But you were… more. Larger than life. Like some hero from a storybook.”

He looked skeptical, and amused, and she felt herself blushing as he said, “I’ll swear you knew better than that right from the start. I might have some abilities, but I’m no hero and never have been.”

And now it was her turn to look skeptical. She _did_ know better.

He saw -- deduced -- what she was thinking, the array of memories that proved her belief. He colored faintly, and had the grace to look a little less certain of himself. “At least you have to admit now that I am all too human, after...the last year and more--”

“You are,” she agreed. “And yes, I always knew that. But… Sherlock, again, why are we doing this? I came here so I could say goodbye today, and perhaps tell you of my plans, though I should have known... but it seems… look, do you need something? Is that what this is about?”

He made an exaggerated show of considering this. “Mmm...yes, actually.”

“What is it then? What do you need?”

“I told you nearly four years ago, Molly Hooper. I need _you_.”

She stared again.

When she didn’t speak, he continued. “As I said, I don’t want you to go, and I have a proposal to make to you.”

“A… a _proposal?_ ” she blurted. “What sort of--”

But he held up a hand, saying, “No, let me finish! This is hard enough without useless exclamations added to you sitting before me, looking so adorable and yet so miserable.”

She gaped at him.

A crooked smile touched his lips. “Yes, _adorable_. I suppose you thought I never saw you that way, but I did, of course, because you are. When you first knew me I wasn’t ready for any sort of relationship, much less one that I felt was based on an erroneous infatuation. But we’ve both come a long way since those days, haven’t we? If you still love me, it’s with eyes that see clearly what I am. And as for me, I think for the first time in my life I may be ready for a serious relationship. At least… I’d like to try.”

“With… _me?_ ” she breathed, barely able to take it in.

He shrugged slightly. “It’s logical. Makes sense. Doesn’t it?”

It did. It always had in her own mind. But she could not help but wonder what had happened to change _his_.

She nodded, rather curtly. “What is your proposal, then?”

His eyes were bright and he was trying not to smile, though there was an irrepressible curve to his lips. “Give that offer in San Francisco a pass for now and move to Baker Street with me. We can marry, if you like. Or we can wait, though I find that I’m traditional enough to wish the union to be formalized before offspring come into the picture. Your choice, though. I know that it’s asking a lot. I live a dangerous, and often erratic life, and that’s something I’ve struggled with: dragging you into it even further. The only thing that kept you safe from Moriarty -- and Magnussen -- was the fact that they had no idea what you meant to me. And maybe _I_ didn’t even know, not the full extent. Until two weeks ago, when Lestrade just _happened_ to mention you were leaving.”

Greg Lestrade. She’d told him. Almost everything. Greg understood about the inexorable passage of time. _And_ hopeless love.

Only perhaps hers wasn’t quite as hopeless as she’d thought.

She frowned at Sherlock, still hardly believing all this unusual candor could be real, but as she sat there doubting him, he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small black box. The kind that would hold a ring.

“Open it,” he said as he set it on the table between them.

Her hand trembled as she picked it up, and she knew she looked far too solemn as she carefully cracked it open.

The ring wasn’t new, though it shone brilliantly, as though it had been recently cleaned. It was a delicate thing, a pretty, old-fashioned setting of rich yellow gold with a square-cut green stone of quite perfect brilliance, flanked by small diamonds.

“Is it an emerald?” she asked, looking up at him. And the way he was looking back was… disturbing.

But he said, merely, “Yes. It was my grandmother’s. She was born in May, too, and she was small and slender… like you. It should fit. But we can have it sized, if we need to.”

_We._

She looked at the ring again, almost overwhelmed.

Almost.

She closed the box, and after a moment she put it in her bag. She said to him, “I’m going to think about it.”

“Do you have any more questions?”

She laughed, and there was a slightly hysterical note in it. “I… I’ll have a million, no doubt. But not now. I have to go. I have to _think_.” She got unsteadily to her feet, grabbed her bag. The bag that was so heavy now, holding as it did the weight of her world.

But he’d risen as well, that odd light still in his eyes, and came around to her, and took her hand in his. “I’ll walk you to the Tube. Thank you for coming today.”

She felt more confused than ever and hardly knew what to say, could barely meet his gaze. Her eyes dropped to the table and she suddenly exclaimed, “We didn’t eat the pastries, or drink our coffee!”

He chuckled, “Next time,” and lifted her hand, bending to kiss it briefly. An odd, courtly gesture, that she felt should have burned, marking her as it did. But then he was tucking her hand in his arm. “Shall we go, Miss Hooper?”

She nodded, and looked away, toward the door of the cafe, all too aware that she was blushing like a schoolgirl.


	2. Aubergine?

It was nearly ten o’clock that night when Sherlock’s text alert sounded. He grabbed up his cell and could not help smiling at the message.

 

_ I’m coming over. - MH _

 

Curt and to the point. Clearly she’d made a decision.

He rapidly typed out his reply.

 

_ Text when you arrive, I’ll let you in - SH _

 

This was good. Though he found that he was suddenly worried. He sent another text.

 

_ Take a cab! - SH _

 

She replied within a minute.

 

_ Taking the Tube - MH _

 

He swore, annoyed. She should not be out alone on the streets of London at this hour.

 

_ I’ll send a cab, wait there. - SH _

_ No! - MH _

_ YES! - SH _

 

There was a long pause, a minute and a half, maybe. Then…

 

_ All right. Waiting. - MH _

 

Feeling smug, he ordered the cab that would pick her up. Much faster than the Tube at this time of night, anyway. Fifteen or twenty minutes at most. 

To distract himself, he jumped up and began to tidy the flat. It wasn’t too bad, Mrs. Hudson having given it some attention when he’d gone out of town to fetch his grandmother’s ring. 

He thought again of his parents’ reaction to his request, his father’s bemusement, his mother’s shocked surprise and uncomfortably penetrating questions. In the end, Mummy had jumped up and hugged him to her with a fierce joy she hadn’t shown him in years. There had been tears in her eyes as she’d scurried off to find the ring for him, and his father had said, quizzically, “You certainly know how to stir things up, son. And for once it’s in a good way!”

Well, they deserved some happiness. As did he. And Molly.

The experiment he’d been working on at the kitchen table was left intact -- Molly would understand the importance of that -- and his bedroom was in order, as usual. He popped into the loo to check it over, and check himself over as well, peering critically at himself in the mirror over the sink. Fluffing his hair a bit, in an artistic way. And then giving a snort of laughter.

His clothes were acceptable, the heavy blue silk dressing gown contrasting nicely with his pristine white shirt and black trousers. Though perhaps he should change into the aubergine shirt, since it was her favorite. But no. Too blatant an effort toward seduction.

And would it be seduction?

God, he hoped so.

He paced for a while, observing his reactions with interest and some dismay. It almost felt as though he were a couple of decades younger, a callow adolescent. Uncertain. Inexperienced.

Only he was  _ not  _ inexperienced. It had been a while. A long while. But surely it was rather  _ like riding a bike _ , as the saying went.

And it might not come to that, anyway. At least not tonight.

The thought made him frown and he stopped in the middle of the room.

And his text alert sounded.

 

_ I’m here. - MH _

 

He didn’t bother with a reply, just went out and down with swift stealth, his bare feet making no noise, knowing exactly where to tread to avoid the creaking step. He found that his heart was thudding as he reached the door, and took a moment to compose himself. Then he opened it. 

She wasn’t smiling, but there was something in her eyes, and in the way she was dressed. Black flats with little bows on them, black leggings, and a typically out-sized Molly jumper, grey with a huge splash of flowers across the front, her beautiful hair unbound save for a barrette at each side, and she looked… adorable. Just as he’d told her. He wanted to snatch her up and carry her up the stairs there and then. But he didn’t.

“M-molly,” he uttered, and was shocked at his stammer. That was  _ her  _ trick, wasn’t it?

She cocked her head, and her lips quivered. “Sherlock?”

He cleared his throat. “Come in. Shall we try not to disturb Mrs. Hudson?”

“I think that would be best,” she agreed in a low voice.

He led the way back up the stairs to his flat, and knew a small thrill of satisfaction when she, too, instinctively avoided the creaking step. 

She was perfect for him.

They went in and she moved aside so he could quietly close the door.  Then he turned to her, unable to quite suppress a smile as they confronted one another.

Finally, she said, “You could have worn the aubergine shirt.”

“I thought it might be too obvious.”

“Perhaps.”

And then she came to him and began to undo the buttons of his apparently adequate white shirt.

His heart soared, and when she’d done a few and had given the shirt a firm tug, trying to free it from his trousers, he had to bend and catch her face in his hands and kiss her. She gave a small gasp against his lips, and then her arms were about his neck and she was kissing back, quite furiously, his lips, then his cheek, his nose, anything she could reach. He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him, and she suddenly stopped. Stepped back.

And glared. “Sherlock Holmes, if this is some sort of trick I shall murder you and have you buried in an unmarked grave. And you bloody well know I can do it.”

“That’s just one of the many things I love about you, Hooper,” he said with a grin.

She was trying not to smile, but there was a distinctly greedy look on her face as she surged forward again and shoved the dressing gown off his shoulders. He helped to discard it, letting it fall unheeded to the floor, and by then she was at his belt, unbuckling it, having apparently given up on the shirt until she could have easier access. He started to put his hands on her shoulders, but she actually snapped, “Hold still!”

“Is this some kind of test?” he inquired, highly amused. 

“Yes, it is,” she said, and having finished with the buckle, undid the single button on his trousers with brisk efficiency and pulled down the zipper.

But Sherlock, though adaptable, decided he preferred to take the lead in this particular instance. “Oh, good,” he said, and shoving her hands away, swiftly bent and swept her up. This was even easier than he’d imagined it would be (he wondered if she’d lost five or six pounds, rather than the four he’d estimated, it was so difficult to tell with the loose clothing she favored), and her small yelp of surprise was most enjoyable. “I was always good at exams in school,” he told her as he carried her toward his bedroom. “Let’s see how this one goes.”


	3. Test

It _was_ a test, if only nebulously planned on her part.

She had spent the remainder of the afternoon debating with herself, alternately giddy or rendered dumbstruck by this unbelievable turn of events. She’d given Toby a pat, but ignored the rest of her half-disassembled apartment entirely, pacing about, reexamining every moment of their meeting at Gino’s, wondering how… what… _when?_

He’d escorted her to the Tube, right into the station and down to the platform, and just before she’d boarded he’d kissed her on the lips -- for the first time! He had worn a self-satisfied smirk as the doors had closed, dividing them, and she could hardly blame him, stunned as she’d felt, as she must have looked.

Over the course of the afternoon that had worn off and by evening a disconcerting anger had taken its place. All her plans… here she’d finally found the courage to make a change, and now _this!_ How typical of him, he’d been doing this to her since the day they’d met, throwing her off balance, demanding that she cater to _his_ timetable, _his_ whims.

And yet after several hours of strenuous mental exertion she realized it came down to one thing. Did he love her? He hadn’t said so! She knew he loved her as a friend without him saying it. But as a wife? As the mother of his children?

That’s when she’d texted him. There was no use in trying to settle anything without talking to him again. And maybe more than talking. She was still not convinced he was attracted to her in _that_ way.

In fact, as she’d made her way to Baker Street (in the cab he’d insisted on, and if he supposed she was going to bend to his will in all matters he had another thing coming), she’d decided that he could not be. Attracted. In that way. And she would bloody prove it, to him and to herself, making their positions crystal clear so they… she… _they_ could get on with their lives.

Except it wasn’t going at all the way she’d thought it would.

He set her on her feet and shoved the bedroom door closed, then drew her into his arms, into an embrace just rough enough, just eager enough, kissing her in a way that told her unmistakably that he meant it. At the same time, somehow, he raised the back of her jumper, then slid his hand down her leggings and carefully chosen lace knickers to cup her bare backside, pulling her hips firmly against his, grinding into her a bit, showing her precisely where this was going -- if she wished it.

She had gasped in shocked surprise, of course, and though he did not remove his hand, he stopped grinding and kissing long enough to ask, “All right, then Hooper?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” she muttered and virtually attacked him, kissing him fiercely, one arm about his neck, her other hand slipping down and (right on target) into the opening of his briefs. It was his turn to utter a stuttering gasp, and she smiled under his lips.

He endured her explorations for long seconds, merely trying to move his own hand further down and between her legs from the back, but presently he disengaged himself, and her, saying unsteadily, “If you want this to go much further you’d better stop a moment. And why the devil are you wearing so many clothes?”

She stood there and looked up at him, her breath already coming short. “That can be remedied,” she said, her voice hoarse, while her brain squealed,  _My God, this is really happening!_

And he was wearing that crooked smile, his eyes alight with happiness and… yes, _lust._ “ _I’ll_ remedy it,” he told her, and proceeded to do so, divesting her of her jumper, firmly turning her about to unhook her black lacy bra, and then pulling both leggings and pants down to her ankles. She toed off her shoes, and rather frantically tried to do the same with the clothing, but it wasn’t working and then he was laughing. “Let me do it.” He was on his knees behind her, and she felt him kiss her hip, then nip, then a little swipe of his tongue in the same spot. _Oh my God_ , she thought again, and stilled. Carefully she lifted one foot, then the other, as he removed the last of her clothing. And then she turned to him.

He was still kneeling there, at her feet now, like a supplicant, and she looked down at him, taking in the emotions reflected upon his face as looked at her this first time. All his gleeful wolfishness faded, and a sort of anguish came into his eyes. He stood up. Caressed her cheek. “I’m sorry. You’re so lovely, and I know there were times -- too many times -- when I made you doubt that.”

She pressed her lips together, and said, resentfully, “This is _not_ the time to make me weep.”

He grimaced. “I suppose not.”

“And you’re still dressed. Unfair.”

The amusement was returning. “Miss Hooper, whatever made you think I play fair?”

And he snatched her up -- she yelped, again -- and laid her down on his bed, moving over her, on her, his weight sheer delight, kissing, catching hold of her wrists and gently holding her captive as he moved down, his lips at her jawline, her neck, shoulder, the swell of her breast, and then she cried out as his mouth closed over her nipple to lick, to suckle. He shifted to give her other breast the same attention, but after a long, delicious time, stopped, let go of her wrists and moved back up to kiss her lips as his hand slid down, down, to tease the scant curls at the apex of her legs. She gave a squeak, clutching at his shoulders, but he said, “You really should try not to make so much noise, Hooper, Mrs. Hudson’s not at all deaf, you know.” But there was no more squeaking, his finger -- fingers -- had slipped within as he’d spoken and she could barely breathe, she hadn’t realized how very ready she was, and he knew exactly… _exactly_ where…

She writhed, helpless, opening her legs further, and barely managed, “I th-thought… you were… were… ”

“Rumors can be so misleading,” he murmured, and then stopped her cry with his kiss as one long finger slipped deep within her slick heat while he continued to stroke her where it absolutely counted.

She lost track of things then, he was murmuring to her between kisses, the hand between her legs inexorably driving her to distraction, and then (so quickly _\-- too_ quickly) she was at that edge, that blissful agony, his whisper against her ear, _Come for me, sweetheart!_ and then her body arching, sobbing his name as the orgasm broke and swept through her, and ah! he was clever, he made it last and last, his touch too gentle, too good, until finally it was too much, she closed her legs, curling into herself as he released her, gasping and trembling as he gently massaged the wet curls, and the swollen, sensitive flesh beneath.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her mantra for the evening -- perhaps for the rest of her life. Which might not be long at this rate, there were so many things to do, to try... But as she began to relax, he slid away, down, and she opened her eyes to watch, almost in disbelief, as he placed a kiss where his fingers had been moments before, and then another, high on the inside of her dampish thigh.

And then he was getting off the bed, standing, ripping down his trousers and briefs and kicking them away, his erection now quite obviously of immediate concern. But his clever fingers failed at this point, fumbling at the remaining buttons of his shirt, and when she saw that he was losing patience, Molly roused herself to help him.

“Forget it!” he snapped, ready to pull the shirt over his head -- as if that would do anything but trap him!

She protested, “No, let me. You’ll tear it!” As he stilled, she added provocatively, “I have clever fingers, too, you know.”

“Do you?” And he smiled.

Presently she was done, even the difficult cuffs, and he was able to strip off the shirt, letting it fall to the ground. For a moment they simply looked at each other. She reached up to touch the scar in the middle of his chest, still red after all these months.

He had almost died. She had almost never had… _this_.

He took her hand and moved it up a little, and she could feel his heart beat strongly beneath the solid flesh and bone. And he said, “I love you, Molly Hooper.”

She winced. “You’re not supposed to say it during sex.”

He frowned and lifted a brow. “Really? Who made that rule?”

“I don’t know. It’s a thing.”

“It’s ridiculous. But I’ll say it any time you like, in or out of bed.”

She stepped close, and took his heavy cock in her hand, savoring the hiss he made as she stroked once… twice. Then she let go and took hold of his hand. “ _In_ right now, I think,” she said, and led him back to bed.


	4. Changes

Sherlock woke at approximately 8:47 A.M., judging from the quality and angle of the light coming in the window. He took a deep breath, moved slightly, and smiled. The air was redolent of a night of sex -- no,  _ love making _ , for that’s what it had been, the other occupant of his bed having made the act into something profound, the kind of experience of which poetry and every tale of romance spoke, though they were but shadows. His Molly, now curled close against his side. 

He should let her sleep, he knew. It hadn’t been precisely “Seven Times a Night at Baker Street”, refractory periods being what they were, but there had been a number of encounters, some almost dreamlike, when they’d been half asleep. He had never experienced such a thing before.

He always missed something. But to have missed  _ this _ …

Molly stirred slightly, her left arm and its  _ ringless  _ hand sliding up across his chest. He scooted down and her beautiful eyes fluttered open, then drifted closed again as he kissed her lips, lingering for a long moment before moving on to her cheek, then murmuring in her pretty ear, “Where’s the ring?”

He felt her smile. He pulled back enough to take in the sight of her, aglow with happiness --  _ sated  _ happiness --  _ temporarily  _ sated happiness. She said, “It’s in my bag. I think we left it near the door.”

“Will you wear it?” he asked, needing to hear the answer.

She said, solemnly, a quieter happiness in her eyes, “I will.”

“Don’t run off,” he said, kissing her nose.

She giggled as he got out of bed. 

He walked blithely into the parlour area of the flat, fetched the bag from where it had been carelessly discarded, and was just straightening to return to the bedroom when the door of the flat opened and Mrs. Hudson was there with her tea tray.

Her complacent expression altered, her eyes widening as she took him in, naked except for Molly’s strategically placed bag -- “ _ Oh! _ ” -- then looking away, taking in his silk dressing gown on the floor, then back to him, carefully confining her gaze to his face. “I’ve brought your tea.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Biscuits?”

“I… I’ve made some scones, would you like one of those?”

“I would. Hungry this morning. Can you please bring enough for two?.”

“Sherlock, are you… entertaining?”

“Mmm, yes, you could call it that.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. To have interrupted, I mean. And it’s…” She glanced briefly down at the bag. “...a  _ woman? _ ”

He suppressed a snort of laughter. “It’s  _ Molly _ , Mrs. Hudson. Molly Hooper. Though soon to be Holmes, if all goes according to plan.”

She gasped, nearly dropping the tea tray, and Sherlock, unwilling to see his favorite tea service destroyed, opted to toss aside the bag and take the tray from her, ignoring her sounds of dismay as he walked it into the kitchen and set it on the counter. As he checked the cupboard for an additional teacup she managed, “I’ll just get the scones -- but Sherlock, John called, Lestrade has been trying to reach you. There’s a case!”

“Not today,” Sherlock said, firmly. 

“I believe John’s on his way over.”

Sherlock sighed, and hung his head, looking as dejected as possible.

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Hudson said, sympathetically. “I’ll head him off. Give him some breakfast. He likes a fry-up now and then. Don’t think Mary goes for that sort of thing, really.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, grinning and picking up the tea tray. 

She’d slipped out before he could turn around.

He fetched Molly’s bag from the parlour and slung it over his arm before he carried the tea tray into the bedroom.

Molly was sitting up, her eyes wide, rumpled bedclothes pulled up to her chin.

“She’s gone,” Sherlock said, “Though she’s brought tea and she’s going to bring up some scones. And John’s coming over, apparently.”

“I heard,” she said, sounding disappointed. 

“I’m not going out on a case!” he assured her, setting the tea tray on the bed and sitting down beside it to pour out. 

“What if it’s a ten?”

“Nope.”

“I could go with you.”

He looked up at her. A smile was curving her lips. “Would you like that? You are still my pathologist -- are you not?”

She nodded. “If… if I can get my position back. I’ll have to talk to Mike--”

“That won’t be a problem.”

She grimaced. “Mycroft?”

“Only if necessary. But I’m fairly certain Stamford was actually waiting for you to leave the country before beginning the search for your replacement. Not that you  _ could  _ be replaced, really. Tea?”

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the cup. She took a sip. “Perfect!”

“One can expect nothing less from Hudders,” he said, tasting the steaming liquid he’d poured into the mug he’d found in the cupboard. But he wrinkled his nose. “I’m not quite sure this was thoroughly washed the last time I used it.”

“Not for an experiment?”

“Probably.” He set the unsatisfactory brew down and took up her bag.

“It’s in the side pocket,” she said.

“Thank God for that!” It was one of those large bags with a single central pocket that allowed everything to end up buried near the bottom, but her foresight allowed him to locate the small box immediately. 

He took the ring out and looked at her. “Give me your hand, Miss Hooper.”

She did. That small hand that held such strength -- and could be so gentle, too. He slid the ring on--it fit perfectly--and brought her fingers to his lips. 

“I love you,” she said, tears edging her voice.

He closed his hand firmly over her fingers and looked up at her. “I know,” he said.

And she laughed, joyously, and kissed him.

 

~.~


End file.
